


Clint hates it when people touch Phil

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, Clint Is A Cephalopod, Companionable Snark, Fluff, M/M, Phil Is a Ninja, Possessive Clint, Protective Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint loves being on the shooting range when Phil is teaching junior agents how to use their weapons when wounded or under duress (especially because his husband's efficiency is embarrassingly arousing), but this one damn agent seems to have decided Phil is worthy of her affections and Won't. Stop. Flirting.</p><p>Clint is not eavesdropping, not at all staring, and <i>most decidedly not jealous.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint hates it when people touch Phil

Clint isn't jealous.

Clint isn't jealous, and Phil is at the junior agent end of the shooting range, getting stared at and admired by a legion of brats, and when one particularly blatant agent casts an appraising look down at Phil's (admittedly incredible) ass, Clint's hands don't tighten around his bow and he is _most decidedly_ not jealous.

He makes a point of not listening to them talk, keeping his attention focused on the pinpoints that pass for his targets these days, and if some of their conversation brushes against his ears ever so often he can't really be blamed for eavesdropping, can he?

When Coulson demonstrates a particularly complex maneuver involving two clips, one empty and one full, and a movement quicker than most eyes can follow (Clint isn't "most eyes", but he totally isn't staring), and one of the said junior agents licks her lips and purrs, "Those forearms are better than porn," Clint doesn't draw his bow back with more force than necessary and doesn't imagine aiming the arrow at her head.

"Agent Wilkinson, observing my forearms instead of the gun may explain the exceedingly low scores you achieved on the last test," Phil retorts, the slightest hint of a reprimand in his impassive declaration, and Wilkinson flushes a bright pink as the assembled agents chuckle.

Clint doesn't chuckle. He needs to let out a bit of breath every now and then to avoid straining his ribcage. It has nothing to do with Phil being his usual uber-competent self and putting junior agents in their place with the carefully controlled deadpan most people don't seem to realize is his form of snark. Even if said deadpan seems to call up a flood of fondness and warms Clint's heart when he feels threatened.

The 3-hour-long training program Clint has set up in order to keep his skills polished has transitioned from tiny targets to tiny, moving targets, and when some of the less-focused junior agents let out gasps of astonishment, well, maybe he smirks just a little. The smirk quickly falls off his face when Coulson disassembles and reassembles his weapon with brutal efficiency, and Clint swears he doesn't tense up when Wilkinson sighs, "Imagine what those hands could do in bed."

Phil levels a glare at her, his face carefully set in the bland mask Clint has seen cripple agents with confidence several orders of magnitude above Wilkinson's, Clint included. "Agent Wilkinson, I hereby request you desist flirting with me. Any other references to my skills in the bedroom will hereby be construed as harassment and will be reported personally to Director Fury."

Phil's glance to Clint is apologetic. Clint definitely isn't looking at him.

Wilkinson pouts. "What's a girl to do for some attention, _sir_?"

Clint's hackles rise at the subtle tease coloring the honorific, and decides that now is not the time to remember breathless _sir_ s whimpered as Phil slams his hips into him steadily, rhythmically and achingly, achingly slowly, with Phil's hushed " _You're so beautiful like this,_ " and " _So amazing, so perfect,_ " ringing in his ears. He resolutely fights down the searing pulse of arousal and most definitely does not blush.

"Maintain professionalism and work hard," Phil states, unflappable as always, and calmly resumes the lesson. Clint could kiss him, but Fury has already yelled off his ear for mentally scarring junior agents, so he bites back his disconsolate keen and keeps his bow trained on the now-darkened course, shooting at the minuscule, twinkling flashes of light that mark his next round of targets.

"So I'm guessing coffee is completely out of the question?"

Clint is normally a rational, logical human being (with the mentality of a hyperactive twelve year old pumped with caffeine laced with sugar), and he knows that it's a throwaway line, a casual jab as Wilkinson concedes the point to Phil, but the snarling cacaphony of _mine mine mine Phil is mine mine my Phil my agent MINE_ thundering through his ears is a bit distracting.

Phil's voice cuts through Clint's internal screaming. "As your immediate superior, I am obligated to inform you that fraternization is outlawed by paragraph 7 section C of the S.H.I.E.L.D fraternization manual," he intones, the barest hint of a growl in his tone, and Clint's heart sinks because _really? He's rejecting her over the manual and not because he and Clint are-_

"As a married man," Phil continues, unaware of Clint's internal monologue, "I'd just like to point out that my husband is extremely protective and won't hesitate to stake his claim if you are ever so forward again."

When he smiles at Clint, Clint finally stops pretending that he's not jealous (because _he is jealous_ oh yes _how he is jealous_ he'll show Phil exactly how much he's jealous later tonight with Phil on the mattress gasping for air as Clint relentlessly, torturously teases and delves and laps) and smiles sheepishly back, because Phil is the only person Clint trusts with his heart and Phil trusts Clint with his own heart too.

Wilkinson stutters out an abashed apology as a murmur of dissent rises from her fellow agents, and Clint is heartened when some go so far as to shake their head in revulsion.

With a light heart, Clint snaps his razor sharp focus back to the shooting range, hissing when he realized he's nearly missed a target, firing the arrow 0.4 seconds off his usual mark, and berates himself for getting distracted by Phil (though he doesn't blame himself, Phil is incredibly distracting, he can't stop staring at him while he sleeps sometimes, his face soft an open in a show of unadulterated trust Clint still doesn't quite believe he's managed to deserve).

Clint pays attention with half an ear as Phil demonstrates how to hold a gun while wounded, moving through the ranks of the junior agents, correcting stances and shifting arms, relocating wrists and showing them how to hold "There, right there," and support the weight off of the injured arm, and he flicks a few cursory glances at Phil, admiring the way his tailored suit shifts, silvery gray fabric as fluid as an extension of Phil himself.

When Phil, in the midst of, "When your arm is positioned so, you-" abruptly halts, Clint immediately flicks his head around in a gesture more bird than human, and his vision tunnels and turns a violent, toxic crimson because _she is touching Phil_ , and Phil has a stormy expression and is opening his mouth to reprimand her but it doesn't matter because _she is touching his Phil, sheiscoppingafeelofhisarm_ and Phil is _Clint's_ and Clint's alone, how dare she _how dare she howdareshe-_

The faint whir of the range powering off is cut through by three sharp thwacks as Junior Agent Wilkinson is catapulted across the shooting range and slammed into a wall R&D has promised is bulletproof but is apparently not Clintproof. Clint strides across the range with his knuckles turning white from the strain and shrieks of rage battering against his clenched teeth, ignoring the surprised shouts of junior agents and Phil calmly explaining that this is his husband, nothing to worry about.

When he stands in front of her, blood thumping at his ears, a chant of _mine mine mine MINE_ echoing around his mind, he looks at her for a moment and his stomach churns.

She is absolutely terrified, and when his mind flashes back to blue tinted memories of terrified ( _not dead, not dead, so lucky they're not dead_ ) junior agents, the entire venomous rant he'd prepared to snarl at her dies in his mouth. Anger still roars within him, but he's suddenly clear-headed, surprisingly reasonable, and he realizes maybe, maybe he doesn't need to make her feel like absolute trash and a waste of space, maybe he can be better than everyone who's ever done the exact same to him. At the very edge of his vision, he sees Phil give a minute tilt of his head, and his rage is tempered with satisfaction because _Phil trusts him to do this_.

She's still watching him, mouthing "Holy shit," and "What the fuck," so Clint smiles, breaking out of his (apparently eerily terrifying) resting face. "My husband has done an admirable job in rejecting your advances, Agent Wilkinson," he informs her. "He's made it clear that they are unwelcome, and I'd like to ask you not to touch him again without his consent."

The rage inside him is unappeased, itching to sink its teeth into the target of his frustrations, and he lets his smile harden into a rictus and is perversely, vindictively pleased when she swallows hard. "If you do touch him again," Clint continues, and lets some of his simmering fury color his words, "I will deal with you faster than Phil can file the requisite paperwork to rebase you far to the north of the Arctic circle."

He puts every ounce of his anger, his resentment, his _outrage_ into the glare he shoots her, communicating very clearly that his method of dealing with any infractions will be similar to what she's experienced today, and she quails under his eyes, looking away with a hastily aborted whimper.

"Considering Fury has granted me executive permission to kick junior agents off the Helicarrier," Phil pipes up, and Clint definitely doesn't jump, "You can rest assured, Agent Wilkinson, that Agent Barton's method of 'dealing with it' will be unexpected, quick, and..." a fond smile plays across his lips, "Decidedly brutal. Do keep in mind that I currently lay claim to the record of fastest paperwork submission, a record I have been itching to break for quite some time."

Clint can't help his fond smile. "Fucking paperwork ninja."

"Wannabe octopus," Phil huffs, affectionately rolling his eyes (because Clint is extremely adept at channelling his inner cephalopod when Phil tries to get out of bed). When, after a moment, he adds, " _My_ wannabe octopus," Clint's heart swells because the sheer joy of knowing Phil is his, the one thing Clint has ever allowed himself to keep, is matched only by knowing that Clint is Phil's as well and that Phil's planning on keeping him around forever. He's said so himself, more than once, in front of witnesses to boot, and the one thing everybody at S.H.I.E.L.D knows is that Phil Coulson's plans never fail.

After a moment, Phil's expression turns bland, but Clint can read love loud and clear in the crinkles around his eyes, in the quirk of his mouth. "Agent Barton, would you perhaps like to demonstrate how to properly utilize a sniper rifle?" Agent Coulson asks, and Clint shoots to attention with a snappy, mocking salute.

"Sir, yes sir," he barks, and he hears Phil snorts softly in amusement as Clint turns to the junior agents staring at him warily, fear in their eyes, and begins enthusing over the sniper rifles available to S.H.I.E.L.D and how to best use them to kill a man, and he's secretly relieved when they slowly relax, one by one, caution fading at Clint's exuberance, realizing his wrath was only aimed at Agent Wilkinson and not at them as a collective group.

 

When Phil's simple silver wedding band catches the light as Clint uses him as a mannequin, to show the agents the proper stance to avoid recoil from some of the longer-range models (using the opportunity to correct Phil's stance because staying on the backlines with the Avengers isn't an excuse to be sloppy), happiness bubbles up inside Clint's chest and leaves him feeling all warm and fuzzy.

And when Agent Wilkinson remain stapled to the range wall for four and a half hours despite the best efforts of both the junior agents and R&D, well, revenge is sweet and leaves Clint feeling smugly content.

 

-~-

 

(And, later, when Phil chews him out back on their floor at Stark's tower with an overwhelming undercurrent of pride underneath his words, and, even later, pants, " _Love it when you're so protective of me, of us, love you,_ " breathlessly when Clint pounds into him, Clint's heart feels as if it could burst.)


End file.
